The Return
by lizinnia
Summary: Sherlock returns to London after his 2 years dismantling Moriarty's network. He's different now; Serbia took a toll on him. Will John be able to help him feel like himself again?
1. Chapter 1

His face is flushed red and his expression is pure panic. He may be physically fit but his heart pounds, beat after beat, bursting in his chest, blood sailing to his muscles. His long, pale fingers are curled into sweaty fists, swinging forward as if their momentum will make him faster, make him safe. His lungs are screaming, knees are aching, shins are stabbing with pain.

_If I stop all is lost. If I run the damage is limited to my shins and knees. Must keep going._

His body and brain are in full survival mode and it is nothing but pain.

Scraping his way through the bramble, he hears them. They're close. The whirling sound of the helicopter is no longer in the distance. The beam of light it projects bounces around him, teasing, close. So close. Too close. He's too slow.

The voices behind him approach, speaking a language he only understands in bits and pieces. The spotlight falls on him.

He stops, falls to his knees, and raises his arms.

_John. I'm sorry._

They grab him, frisk him, strip him of his clothes, tearing them off him with knives. He is blindfolded, hands bound behind his back.

_Mycroft. Please._

Rather than being transported in the helicopter, he is forced to walk for what seems like miles, his body already cumbersome from running, until he finally approaches a large, stone building, and is taken to a dark room.

A man in uniform is there waiting for him.

"What is your name?"

No answer.

"If you don't tell me, my guards will take you out and shoot you. What's your name?"

Silence.

The man nods at his associates holding their captor. They tighten the ropes so tightly around his arms that they felt like barbed wire cutting to the bone. His arms turn purple.

"If you do not talk, you will lose both your arms."

Nothing.

His arms are released from their current binds, shoulders crying with relief. But this lasts only moments. They are soon taken, pulled to either side of him, and tied up, supporting his body weight.

There were more interrogations in the days and weeks to come.

Eventually, Mycroft arrives.

He is dragged out, shuffling through the halls being dragged by his brother, praying no one suspects they are not supposed to be here. They make it out.

Sherlock sees the sun.

The heat of its rays envelops him as he runs again, this time not alone. They hop into a vehicle stationed nearby and make their escape.

The car ride is smoother than one would expect, peaceful, freeing. Sherlock is stiff. His joints ache. He scoots to the right side of the car and leans against the window for support.

"Sherlock," Mycroft starts. "I'm...sorry. I'm sorry it took me this long."

Sherlock remains still.

"You will be home soon, brother dearest. Back to London where you belong. I will have my people tie up these last few loose ends, then you will be free to pick up where you left off. Baker Street."

Nothing.

"Maybe pop by and see that blogger of yours."

No response.

_Christ, he's worse off than I thought._

When they reach their destination, doctors poke and prod at Sherlock. Cleaning the large, gaping wounds on his back, assessing his burns, checking his temperature, giving him fluids. It feels weird, being touched this way. Gently, with the intent to heal. It feels… wrong.

After being deemed stable, he is flown back to London and set up in a room at Bart's under a fake name, not that anyone would recognize the dead detective, especially not in this state.

Mycroft comes with him, watches.

"You will be staying here until you recuperate. This is not a suggestion. You need to let your body heal," he gives Sherlock a stern look, though it seems unnecessary given the state he is in. "I put this together for you," Mycroft states, dropping a manilla folder on his brother's bedside. "I have to go now. Despite what you may believe, I truly do wish I could stay, but work calls. There's plenty of paperwork to fill and reporting to do, especially with all you've been up to."

"Goodbye, Sherlock." And with that he picks up his umbrella, straightens his suit, and leaves.

Sherlock is alone.

He looks around his room. White. Sterile. Empty. No signs of threat. Except there's movement outside his door. Carts and trolleys pushed around. Nurses conversing with their colleagues. _What are they talking about? Are they coming in here? _Beeping from within his own room.

He lasts long enough to shower, request a shave and haircut from Mycroft's lingering men, and eat half a piece of toast. He tries to sleep. Tries to stop flinching whenever the nurses open the door. Whenever they touch him. The beeping never stops. The chatter, the noise, the smell, the white walls. _Christ the beeping_. He turns on a lamp, snatches the envelope off his bedside table and reads only the first page. _New address. Interesting. _He looks at the monitors he is hooked up to. _Approximately 30-73 second period before someone comes. _He tears out his IV, rips the chords around him, and jumps out the window.


	2. Chapter 2

"Dinner will be ready soon!" a warm voice calls from the kitchen.

"Hmm," John replies, eyes on the paper.

**Ding Dong**

"Can you get that please? I'm elbows deep in cheese and potatoes," Mary calls out.

"Hmm? Yeah, of course." John sets the paper on the coffee table and gets up to open the door.

Cold, light blue eyes stare back at him. Chiseled cheeks shaped by curly dark hair.

John lets out a strangled noise that ends abruptly as he's frozen in place, staring. His heart is going a mile a minute, his hands are feet feel numb. _Am I shaking? _His head feels light, ready to float off far, far away.

Mary hears a thud.

"John? John who is-" she begins as she walks over spoon in hand. "Oh my god," she whispers as she looks up at the man looming in the doorway. "Oh my god!" she screams looking at John on the floor. "You're- you're!" she thrusts her spoon towards her lanky visitor, "You're him! Oh my god!" She looks back at the floor. "John! Oh _Christ, John!." _She kneels down beside him. "You! Help me move him to the couch." Sherlock obliges, lifting his friend's legs as his _girlfriend? wife? no, no ring _lifts his torso. Once placed on the couch, the woman grabs some pillows to elevate his feet. Certain her lover will be okay, she turns back to the unexpected guest.

"You- you're Sherlock, aren't you?" she asks in awe.

Sherlock shrugs.

"Yes. You are. Of course you are! Oh my god where have you- we thought you were-" she begins, then takes in the sight before her. Dead. He really does look quite dead. Pale, gaunt, tired, vacant, and... in hospital garb? "Christ, look at you! Look, the bedroom is down the hall, first right. Grab yourself something to wear out of John's things. I'll get you both some water and let you know when he's ready to talk to you."

John begins to stir and Mary flocks to his side.

"What the- what the hell just happened?" John grumbles, eyes fluttering. "I could've sworn- thought I saw…" he jumps up.

"Shhh" Mary placates, "Shhh just lie back down, okay?" she pushes him back onto his back. "You're right. It's him." She is beaming at him, smiling from ear to ear. The sight is vile.

John's left fist clenches at his side as he pushes her away with his other hand. Anger prickling at him from all angles, he gets up.

"Where is he?! Where did he go?!"

"John, listen to me. I told him to wait in the bedroom. He seems to have had a-"

"Two years!" John sticks his fingers in her face. "Two years he let me think he was dead! Let me… grieve… the- the bastard!"

Mary can see his blood begin to boil as he stands up military style and begins walking to their room

She grabs his arm, holding him back, and he twists furiously, staring daggers into her.

"Two bloody years, Mary!" "Have you any idea-" he stops, breathing heavily.

"I know, John. _I saw you_. I saw what he did to you. But you need to calm down, you don't understand," she pleads

"I don't understand?! Did he tell you that? Have a little chat did ya? Talk about whatever the fuck while I was passed out on the couch? 'Oh John he's so pitiful can't even handle a scare!'"

"No, John. No. He hasn't been talking at all. That's part of the problem. Listen to me. He's a mess, John. I don't know what's happened to him over the past 2 years but he's broken."

"Oh _he's_ broken?! _He's_ the one in pain? I should take care of _him_? Be kind to _him_? After what he did! He's probably fine. Probably just faking it, trying to trick me. Make me forgive him. No. Not for this."

He violently retreats his arm, takes a few steps-

"John don't-"

-and flings open the bedroom door.

Sherlock is sitting up in their bed, tucked under the covers, staring directly ahead, blankly.

"Two years, Sherlock. Two years. How could you do that to me." his voice strained, controlled, but clearly on the edge of slipping.

Sherlock stares straight ahead, no recognition on his face.

"No, you don't get to get out this easy. You don't get to sit there and ignore me. You _owe_ me, Sherlock. You owe me answers."

Nothing.

"SHERLOCK, I SWEAR TO GOD-"

Sherlock's arms immediately cover his head as he curls up instinctively.

"John!" Mary comes rushing in. "John, look at him. _Look_ at him," she pleads.

And for the first time in over 2 years, he does. He looks at the man before him. He looks at Sherlock Holmes. His eyes are wide with what John recognizes as the look he had in Baskerville. Terror. Raw terror.

Not fake, then.

His face is bruised. He has lost a considerable amount of weight. He is pale, most likely dehydrated. His hair is disheveled. His fingernails unclipped. Marks around his wrists. He looks gaunt. Looks like he stepped right out of the coffin John saw get lowered into the ground. And, _Christ, is that a hospital gown?_

John's face drops. His arms dangle limply to his sides.

"...Sherlock…" he says as he reaches his hand slowly towards the man crumpled before him.

Sherlock retreats more.

"Sherlock, it's me, John. You're with me. In my new flat in London. This is my fiancé Mary. You're okay. Everything is going to be okay. Can you hear me?"

Sherlock looks up and meets his eyes, recognition crossing his face.

"John."

He lowers his arms and leans towards him.

"Yeah, yeah it's me." John's voice breaks.

"I'll just… go back to cooking." Mary says placing a hand on John's shoulder, giving him this

moment.


	3. Chapter 3

"You're in my room, on my bed. There's a nightstand to your left and right. There's a grey lamp on each table. See? What else do you see?"

Sherlock begins to look around. "A wooden wardrobe. A discarded hospital gown. A laundry bin," he mumbles.

"Yeah, great. You're doing great." John smiles politely.

"A discarded towel on a wooden chair. A small bookshelf. Pictures of you and… her. A fake echeveria in a ceramic pot."

"And what about me? No deductions, just what do you see?"

Sherlock looks up at John, eyes seeping with vulnerability.

"Green checkered shirt. Brown belt. Jeans. Navy socks." His breathing begins to slow. "And a, quite frankly, horrible mustache."

They make eye contact and John smirks at him. "Bastard," he breathes.

They sit in silence for a few moments, both letting the shock sink into their bodies, letting their heartbeats slow until they match each other's in a slow, steady pace.

"So. You left Baker Street," Sherlock finally croaks out, his voice beginning to find its strength.

"Yeah, well you know, bad memories."

"Mmmmm. And a fiancé, then?"

"Yep," John replies, feeling his body growing tense once more.

"How's that… going?"

John runs his hand through his hair. "Are we really doing this? Is this really what you want to do right now? Sh-mmm-Sherlock Holmes making small talk in my bedroom? Hmm?"

"John it has occurred to me that maybe I owe you some sort of apology," Sherlock says with a sad grimace. His eyes shine up at John.

"Some sort-!" John glances back at Sherlock and pauses-"Yes. Yes you do owe me an apology. And an explanation of how you did it. How you didn't tell me and let me grieve for two whole _bloody years_. And maybe, while you're at it, you can explain _where the fuck you've been_."

Sherlock slumps forward. "John I- I will. I promise. All in due time."

"Due time, right. Yeah. I definitely don't deserve an explanation now or anything, what with it already having been two whole years and all."

"You're right."

"I'm sorry, I'm what?" John prodded.

"Oh hush John, you are right sometimes you know." Sherlock smirked.

"Guess two years can really change a person, huh. You seem nicer," John jived.

Sherlock dropped his gaze.

"Shit, sorry. I didn't mean... clearly you've had some sort of… shit. I just, I didn't mean to trivialize whatever," he gestures his hands vaguely at Sherlock, "happened to you like that."

"It's fine."

.

.

"So," John began

"So?"

"Are you… okay?"

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow at him.

"I mean… okay, so the answer is 'no' and I know that yeah, wouldn't exactly say either of us are okay, but are you… I don't know," John stated lamely.

"Do you want me to talk about...?"

"No!" John blurts. "I mean, yeah, I would like to know quite a lot of things but I know some things can be difficult. I don't want to force you to, you know."

"Right," Sherlock notes, brow furrowed.

"But of course there are some things I would like to know. Some things that I am basically very pissed at you for. And honestly, Sherlock, some things I might never be able to forgive."

_Never. _Sherlock jolts slightly. _Never forgive._

"I'm sorry I didn't mean to make it seem like… I'm not going to- not going to leave you. Okay? Ever. But you left me behind. You let me grieve your death. You threw my whole life away and left me with nothing. I will never be able to forget this, Sherlock, and I need you to understand that. Things aren't going to be the same for a while. But for now, I need you to be honest with me and tell me exactly what you were thinking when you-" John balls his fist "-you _left _me. You let me go to- go to your _funeral_. You let me visit your _grave _and I _talked to you. _And _two years_!"

A vein pops out of John's neck as his expression tightens, only to be softened by an unexpected sound.

They both turn their heads towards the rhythmic knocking on the door. Mary scooches it open and pops her head through. "Sorry to interrupt boys, but dinner's ready and I don't want it to get cold," she says, the corners of her mouth quirked up.

John's focus reorients to Sherlock. "You're going to tell me. Right now. Over a nice dinner. And _yes_ you do have to eat it and _no _I _don't _care that you don't like steak."


	4. Chapter 4

Everything is neatly in its place on the table. Plates full of steak and potatoes and utensils in hand, John and Mary eye Sherlock expectantly.

Suddenly he is too visible.

If he looks forward he sees them both staring at him, side-by-side, just _looking. _If he looks away John might be concerned, get frustrated, more so than he already is. He owes John this. John said he needs this.

Sherlock twirls his fork on his plate. "There were 3 snipers that day."

"No," John interjects. "Not _why, _Sherlock, _how? How_ did you let me go on thinking that...?" He gestures with his hands to fill in the gap, then settles on taking a sip of wine.

Sherlock bites his lip. "It wasn't easy, despite what you might think-"

"-and you have every right to think what you do; I don't blame you for that, John," he quickly interjects. "But you don't understand- no- I mean, you must know that everything I did was with your wellbeing in mind."

John slams his glass down with more fervor than intended. "You're telling me that leaving me… leaving me to... letting me think that you-"

A hand rubs at his tense forearm, prompting him to release his grip. "John, let him talk," a voice presses.

"Fine. Right. Okay," John assents, not quite meeting his wife-to-be's eyes.

She looks back at Sherlock with a polite smile, "Go on, Sherlock."

Sherlock clears his throat. "Right, yes," he begins, a flush creeping up his cheeks, "as I was saying, it wasn't an easy decision. I wanted to tell you, John. It was not a decision of malice or one based on a lack of respect for you. Having you around on cases is incredibly useful, John, and if I could have it my way you, would have been there with me."

"Oh I'm chuffed. I'm so glad to hear how I am an asset to you," John glowered, taking an alarmingly large bite of steak.

Mary smirks, giving him a playful nudge. "Oh hush up, he's trying to tell you he cares about you and you both know it."

John sighs.

"You still haven't started explaining," John notes, pointing his fork at Sherlock. "How you did this. To me, I mean. You're beating around the bush."

Sherlock's expressions drops. "John, I am sorry. I didn't have much of a choice. I know you don't want me to talk about why I came up with this plan, but it so happens to be that the 'why' is an integral part of the 'how' in this situation."

"Go on then," John utters between the steak in his teeth.

"Moriarty had threatened to kill you, John, if I did not commit suicide. It was either I die, or you, along with Lestrade _and _Mrs. Hudson. I needed to make the suicide convincing. If there was any doubt of my death, if he caught the merest whiff of my vitality, you all would have been killed. That is why I could not tell you, John. Someone might have realized from your lack of grieving, or if I took you with me, from your sudden departure, that the whole thing was a farce. And as difficult as it was to leave London, I knew that it was worth it. To save you."

Mary's eyes widen and her mouth and opens with awe, enraptured by the drama of it all.

John is not as thrilled. He stops chewing at some point during this scene and freezes contemplatively. A twisted grin appears on his face at the end of Sherlock's words and he begins to laugh a most unnatural, convulsing sound.

Sherlock and Mary carefully eye each other with concern.

John swallows. "It's funny," he says, "maybe just one acting class could have saved me years of... _years_ of…" he trails off, bursting into a deep chuckle. "And it's ironic, really. You thinking not telling me was saving my life," John scoffs, "Christ, if only you saw me after, then maybe you would realize how stupid your plan was, maybe help _me _fake _my _suicide so we wouldn't have to be in such a ridiculous situation. I'm sure it would have been easy enough. You would never think about that though, would you. Sure you may have been worried for my life, but I bet you didn't even once stop to think about how I'd feel." John looks at Sherlock and tilts his head to the side with a challenge. He tears into another bite of steak, burning the taller man with his gaze.

"John," Sherlock placates. "I truly am deeply sorry. I simply did not realize my apparent passing would have such a profound impact on you."

It might just be the most sincere thing John has ever heard. The most horribly _wrong _thing. A truly _painful_ thing that strikes at his chest.

John drops his fork.

Mary and Sherlock remain still, worried that the slightest movement will break the tension in the room and send it all spiraling toward John.

A moment stretches by as John remains frozen, but he slowly reaches back to the present. He looks at the two people next to him, the two people he loves most in this world, and his face slowly and deliberately begins to lose its tension and resolve in sadness. "Christ, Sherlock, I know you aren't great with understanding people and I know we never talk about these things but I thought we… I thought we were friends. And to think you went off and had who-knows-what happen to you all because you didn't think maybe your one and only friend will feel bad and, I don't know, _grieve for you_ if you go. I don't understand what you thought would happen. Did you really think I would go on with my life as if I hadn't seen what I had seen? Just hang around in 221B watch telly, go to the clinic, grab drinks every now and then with my mates, and you would, what?, pop in again one day and I'd go 'Wow! Brilliant!'"

Sherlock crosses his arms. "When you say it like that it does seem a tad ridiculous, but to answer your question, yes."

Mary tenses, waiting for John's response as her eyes swipe back and forth between the two men.

John just sighs. His face drops. His arms fall to his sides. "Right. Okay. Yea. Fine. Guess I was a real shite friend letting you think that, huh? I'll add that to the list." John rises from his seat as Mary reaches over to pull him back down.

"John," she begins, unsure of what else she can say. John's eyes glow with a softness to them when he glances over at her, but he continues to movements.

"John. Please," Sherlock quavers. It is a sound very unlike the Sherlock John knew two years ago. A sound he would never even imagine that Sherlock could make. His Sherlock.

He stops and turns but fails to meet Sherlock's eyes.

"Christ. Shit Christ shit. Okay, yeah. Sorry, I- I'm sorry. I'm just upset right now, okay? With you, yeah, but also with me and with-with this whole bloody situation. I just need some time to breathe. Just eat your food, I'm going for a walk. And drink water- okay? If you don't eat and drink I can and will send you back to hospital. I'll check on you later, see if you're sleeping, but right now I have to… I'm gonna go."

With that, John turns and resolutely heads out the door.

Mary grabs her and John's plates, bringing them to the kitchen, leaving Sherlock at the foreign table alone with his slab of steak.

"Sorry, Sherl," she calls from the kitchen. "He'll come around, don't worry. You can have the spare room across from ours. Feel free to make yourself at home and let me know if you need anything, okay?" She walks back over to him and smiles sadly. He looks so fragile and so gutted, a kicked puppy slouching at her dining table. "I should probably follow him," she points out.

Sherlock sighs. "Yes. You probably should."

She hums with agreement. "But I'm not going to."

Sherlock looks up at her, eyebrow raised. "No?"

"No. Quite frankly, he can be pretty snippy when he gets like this, and it isn't every day a dead detective pops up in your flat. I think I'd rather stay here. Maybe you can tell me about some of your and John's adventures. He never talks about that stuff with me." She sits back down in her spot and folds her hands on the table.

"Oh. Yes," Sherlock replies, still uncertain. "I have plenty of those."

"Perfect. Only one condition."

Sherlock quirks his eyebrow up once more. "Yes?"

"You really do have to eat. Especially since I spent all that time making it," she teases.

_How very Watson of her_. Sherlock thinks. His stomach sinks when he realizes how real that statement will soon be. _Watson. Mary Watson._


	5. Chapter 5

"Wait- don't tell me!" Mary exclaims as she taps her fingers in concentration. "Boomerang!" She exclaims, eyes set alight. "It was a boomerang! Right?"

"Yes. Exactly," Sherlock smiles softly.

"I knew it!" She crosses her arms confidently over her chest as a smirk builds on her face. "Give me another one!"

"Oh, I don't know," Sherlock says, waving her off.

"Come on, just one more, Sherlock. Please?" She bats her eyes playfully.

"Fine, alright. One more."

"Yes!"

"There were multiple suicides, all committed by people who were seen shortly beforehand. Friends and family members claimed they were not depressed and showed no signs of anything being wrong or different from usual. All killed themselves using the same poison in different remote locations they had no reason to be in."

"Oooo. Okay. So clearly this is some sort of serial killer."

"Yes."

"Someone who takes them all to separate locations. And did so successfully multiple times. And they killed themselves when they were there, so they were alive when they went with him."

"Go on."

"Were there any signs of a struggle?"

"Nope."

"Okay. So they went with him willingly. They knew him. Were there any connections between the victims? Any places they all frequented? Any habits in common?"

"None whatsoever," Sherlock drolls.

"Hmmm. So there's no way they met him at a shared job or through friends?" Mary muses.

"Obviously."

"Hush! That was meant to be rhetorical. Okay, so maybe they didn't know him. Maybe there's another reason why trusted him. But they didn't just let them in their homes, they actively got in a vehicle with them to a remote location. You don't do that with people you barely know. People are cautious about those kinds of things. Except..."

"Except?"

"Aha! Brilliant! He was a cabbie!" Mary grins, looking towards Sherlock for affirmation.

"A cabby indeed. And quite a lousy one at that."

Mary laughs.

"I knew it! I told you I'd be good at this game," she beams, smacking him playfully.

"Yes, it seems John did well. He didn't choose an imbecile this time."

"Yeah thanks, I'd like to think so too. I'm glad I've met your standards"

"Hmm I wouldn't say that just yet," Sherlock teases.

"Don't you go off and start giving me the big brother 'don't hurt him or I'll kill you' talk," she jests back. "Although, to be fair, I think you're a little late for that one."

She holds her hand out straight and they both look at the glittering ring perched there.

"Yes. Well. Don't worry because I wasn't going to. John is an adult and he can do whatever he wants," Sherlock retorts.

Mary's smile recedes, taken aback by the clipped remark.

"Jeez, and here I was thinking you were starting to like me," Mary jives back.

"Yes well clearly you were wrong."

"That's great. I love when I invite someone into my home, they scare my soon-to-be-husband half to death, I console said husband and convince him to go talk to the new guest, make dinner, and then spend the next half hour having a conversation with said guest as he hardly pays attention, then basically tells me that he hates me and to piss off. Ya know, in my own home." A brittle smile crawls on Mary's face as she leans back in her chair and looks Sherlock in the eye.

"And I greatly enjoy coming home and finding the one person I was most looking forward to reuniting with has moved out and probably hates me, then being forced to self-disclose personal information about my departure and history to a complete stranger who acts like she knows me based on the very few stories about me that her partner was willing to talk about given his tendencies to suppress all emotions other than anger," Sherlock professes.

Mary sits there in shocked silence.

Sherlock considers that maybe he should be nicer to John's probably-going-to-be-wife. However, he also couldn't be arsed to do so.

Mary laughs.

Sherlock looks up at her and is surprised to find her expression open and eyes crinkled with mirth, as she relaxes into her seat once more.

She simply states "Fair enough."

"Hm." Sherlock grumbles, sinking into the chair, pout beginning to form on his face.

"He doesn't hate you."

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"He's pissed at you- and he has every right to be- but he doesn't hate you. He could never hate you."

.

"He doesn't blame you either, not really. He knows it's not your fault. 'Cause it's not. You know that, right?"

.

"He missed you, truly. He really, really did. And yeah he may live here now, but I'm sure now that you're back we're gonna be at each other's throats fighting for his attention," she quips.

.

"Maybe we'll all go on cases together- _Oooooo_! Wouldn't that be fun?"

"Exhilarating," Sherlock mumbles.

"Exactly. Now, I think we've had enough fun for one night, don't you think?" Mary asks, looking over Sherlock's slumped form.

"Naturally."

"So why don't you go to bed in the spare room, make yourself at home, and I'll go to my room. I'll give John a call and make sure he's alright so we don't have to worry about him. Sound acceptable to you, Mr. Detective?"

"That'll do," Sherlock replies. "Thank you," he mutters.

"Of course."

They begin to walk down the hall together.

"And Sherlock?" Mary asks as the turn opposite to each other to enter their respective rooms.

"Hm?"

"We'll get him back."


	6. Chapter 6

As John enters the flat and hangs up his coat, nostalgia crashes over him in a wave. Yes, this flat is relatively new to him. Yes, upon entering the foyer everything looks the same as always. But this feeling. This feeling is old. A familiar place in his chest harbors an intimate feeling that sits nestled there. Perhaps it has been hibernating there for years.

It is the middle of the night. Logically, John knows that nothing adventurous is likely to happen. Everyone most likely went to bed. However, John's hands, steady and taught, don't seem to acknowledge this. The strong, swift contractions in his chest are oblivious as well.

He kicks off his shoes and walks down the hall. As he glances at the door on the left his arm reaches for the handle on the right. John sighs.

He turns his body, shoulders squared, slowly turns the handle and opens the door.

"Sherlock, you awake?" he murmurs.

As he peeks his head in, a long figure wrapped in a sheet laying on one side with a mop of curls sitting at the top comes into view. A chest moves slowly, steadily, up and down.

He smirks. "I know you're faking it, you know," he states as he steps into the room.

"How could you possibly know that," came a deep rumble.

"Just look at you. On your side, still as a board, breathing gently. You never sleep like that. You usually look like an octopus flailing around, mumbling some nonsense, and drooling into my Union Jack pillow."

Sherlock snaps upright and glares at John. "I do not. And I _certainly _do not _drool_."

"Yes, yes you do," John laughs. His laughter only intensifies at the resulting pout from Sherlock.

"This is ridiculous," Sherlock grumbles as he flops back down and rolls over, covering his face with a pillow.

John walks over and sits at the edge of the bed, laughter dwindling. "So," he begins conversationally, "Can't sleep?"

"Nope," comes a flippant response.

"Wanna, I don't know, talk about it?"

Sherlock lifts his head up, raising an eyebrow. "Don't you think it is a bit late for this? Shouldn't you yourself have retired by now anyways? Your fiancé is waiting for you after all."

"Yeah, you have a point." Neither of them moves. "But I have a feeling you don't want to be alone tonight."

"_I _don't want to be alone or _you _don't want me to be alone?"

"Hmm. Both? Yeah, probably both." John pulls his legs up onto the bed and crosses them.

The gentle rhythm of their breathing becomes pronounced in the otherwise silent room.

"Sooo," Sherlock drawls. "You were out late."

"Yeah." John lifts his hand to the back of his neck. "Sorry 'bout that. Just a lot to, you know, process. Didn't want to do it here."

"You're afraid you will upset me or hurt me in some way."

"I mean, yeah, but it isn't like what you think. I know you are still you and we're good-ish and I can be honest around you I just…"

"Yes?"

"I just have a hard time with… with controlling my responses. To things."

"John, I'm not broken. You don't need to walk on eggshells around me. I'm fine. You're allowed to be upset."

"I know you aren't broken of course you aren't," John sighs. "However, that doesn't mean you're fine either. And even if you were fine, it's still my responsibility to not hurt the people around me."

"Okay."

"So this has nothing to do with you. It's me."

"Right."

"And if you do need me to change something- if I ever trigger you and don't realize or if I'm just being a standard dick, you can always- there's no shame in-"

"Okay, John."

"Good. Right. Yeah, good."

…

…

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"What now?"

"Now we just relax. Enjoy being here. Together. Soon I'll get tired and leave to go to bed. You'll fall asleep too. And tomorrow will come."

"What about… after?" Sherlock's eyes glimmer with youth as he gazes up at John.

"After? You'll go back home. To Baker Street of course. I'll visit you all the time. We'll start taking cases again. Mrs. Hudson will be floored," he chuckles. Then his face drops. "God, she doesn't know, does she?"

"No. No one knows."

"Christ."

"Haven't exactly had the time to get around to it, John."

"Yeah of course, I know, it's just… Christ. Mrs. Hudson and Greg and everyone at the Yard- they're about to have their entire lives turned upside down."

"I wouldn't be that dramatic, John. Mrs. Hudson will flutter around me like an excited bee at first, but then she will go back to her usual routine, bringing tea in the mornings and then doing whatever she does for the rest of the day. Lestrade will be glad to see me I imagine. The rest of the Yard will be surprised, wonder how I did it, then everything will resume as if I never left, and they'll go back to being annoyed by my mental prowess."

"Ha, yeah they're gonna be pissed to have you back flaunting around and showing off and being all mysterious all the time," John smirks. "But no, seriously. It's going to change their _worlds_ Sherlock. You changed my entire _world_ today. Don't you know that?"

"But you're John Watson and they're them."

"Yeah, yeah you're right." John flops down on the mattress, head at the opposite side of the bed.

Their hearts begin to mirror one another, contracting, relaxing, expanding, and contracting once more in synchrony.

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"How long can I stay here?"

"As long as you want, but I thought you would run back to Baker Street right away and jump back into your experiments, run around the flat like a maniac, hunt down criminals and the like," John quips.

"I'm… not sure. I'm not sure if I'm ready for everything to go back to normal just yet."

"Yeah. I understand that. I think that's why when I came back from Afghanistan I stayed at that miserable flat I couldn't really afford for so long. I wasn't ready for a permanent place. I wasn't ready to settle down again."

"Mmm."

"I'll talk to Mary but I'm sure she will be glad to have you for as long as you need," He grabs gently as Sherlock's ankle, reassuring him.

"Thank you."

John's hand lingers.

"Sherlock?"

No response.

"I'm glad you're back."

They continue lay there, still in awe that they are in one another's presence.

They think about the future. They think about the past. They think about what was, what could have been, and what will never be. They think about their regrets and their sorrows. They let their minds wander freely without judgement or anger, thoughts streaming down multiple paths, slowly trickling away. They fall asleep.


	7. Chapter 7

John is enveloped in heat. It's cozy and nice and different from usual. He hums.

But then there's also a smell.

Two smells, actually. One quite horrific smell that seems to be coming from right in front of his face, and one distant savory smell wafting into the room.

His eyes jerk open and his nose scrunches up and he sees-

A foot.

A long, slender foot. A not-Mary's foot. Pointed at his face, just inches away from touching his nose.

He groans and instinctively begins to push away but freezes.

This is Sherlock Holmes' foot. Sherlock Holmes' _putrid _foot, but still. Here lies proof of his existence, along with the arms wormed around his legs in an embrace, the head nestled in the crook of one of those arms, and the...knees?, he peeks down, yes, knees, lightly pushing into his back.

John sighs. While this may not be the most comfortable position to… do whatever this is considered… Sherlock is sleeping. For real this time. For what is likely the first time in a very, very long time, since John hasn't been there to keep him in check. John sighs once more.

_I wasn't there._

He really ought to move. The smell. The uncomfortable position of all this. The awkwardness that will certainly ensue when Sherlock wakes up. The breakfast- that really does smell quite good- luring him to leave.

He really should get up. Leave the bed. Wake up fully. Get dressed.

_That's what people do, isn't it?_

But then there's Sherlock.

What if he woke up? Hell, what if he gets startled again? Gets confused? Thinks John's someone else, someone trying to hurt him? That would be disastrous.

No. John slips a blanket between his face and the offensive foot, and stays.

Sherlock's arms are free. His arms are _free _and his legs, ankles, they're also _free _and Christ, what is underneath him? Who is underneath him?

No. Doesn't matter.

Free. Opportunity.

_Now._

He jerks upward, ready to-

Oh.

Right.

_John_.

John grunts and stirs from the opposite side of the bed, sits up, and looks at him.

"Errr, good morning," John rasps.

Sherlock looks at the man sitting across from him. Nose crinkled, head tilted. John. Morning John. It's been years since they've shared this level of intimacy. Have they ever shared this level of intimacy? It feels as though they must have at some point, but no, Sherlock realizes, they haven't.

John giggles.

Why is he giggling?

It occurs to Sherlock that he has been staring at John for quite some time. He probably looks quite disheveled as well. Sherlock reaches for his hair, and instantly feels his curls flip-flopping in every direction. Heat rises to his cheeks. This seems to only make John laugh more. Great. Perhaps he should say something…

"Good morning, John."

"'Morning. You look like you slept well," John teases.

"Yes, I did. Thank you."

"At some point you're going to have to tell me how long it's been since you properly slept. Besides this, I mean."

"Hmm. You won't like that answer."

"Didn't think so. Now come on, up you get, we have things to do today."

Sherlock flops back onto the mattress, arm across his head. "Do we?" he protests.

"Yes. Yes, we do."

"Like what?"

"Whatever you want."

"Anything I want?" Sherlock grins.

"Within reason, you git. Now get up." John jumps out of bed and extends out his hand.

Sherlock grabs it and John pulls him up. They release their joint hands and step outside the room.

Mary is gone, along with her purse, and a note is left on the table.

_Had to run to work, sorry I missed you. Breakfast it in the fridge and shouldn't take too long to heat up. I'm sure you boys will manage. _

\- Mary

"You didn't go with her," Sherlock states.

"Nope."

"But you work at the same clinic together. You usually time your shifts so they are at the same time."

John shakes his head in disbelief and smiles. "Never gets old- this thing you do."

Sherlock smiles back at him. "Nothing clever this time, John. Mycroft gave me a folder upon my return detailing the past 2 years of your life."

"Ah. So that's how you found this place."

"Yep. And I suspect Mycroft anticipated that I was going to come here. I'm sure the hospital notified him of me leaving. In fact, I believe there should be a package waiting for me just outside your door."

Sherlock makes no attempt to get it. John takes the hint.

"So we're back to you being mysterious and me doing everything for you, are we? Some things never change."

"As they shouldn't, John!" Sherlock yells as John leaves to grab the post.

John bangs open the front door moments later and attempts to pick up a comically large black box.

"Christ, what is in this thing?" John groans. "Weapons of mass destruction? Wait- don't answer that."

"Sherlock plops onto the couch. Don't be ridiculous, John. That box contains far, far more important items than that."

John slams the box into the doorway on his way in. "Shit. I hope whatever it is it isn't fragile," he grumbles.

"Oh, for God's sake John. If I knew you were going to be this inept I would have gotten it myself."

Sherlock jumps up, walks over, and reaches for the box with a flourish as John shoves it into his arms. The moment John releases all of the weight onto Sherlock, the box falls to the ground with a hefty bang. Sherlock gasps and jumps.

"Shit, sorry."

"It's fine, John. I'm fine."

Sherlock pushes the box into the center of the sitting room and begins tearing things out of it, throwing them around the room.

John dodges a button-down, a pair of oxfords, a skull (he is careful to catch that one and put it down gently) as Sherlock searches for something.

"Moving in are we?" John jokes. "You do realize you're going to have to clean all this up, right?"

"Hm? Yes. Don't be an imbecile," Sherlock states not even looking up from the box.

John rolls his eyes. "What even is half this stuff anyway? He catches another projectile. 'Rossano Ferretti Parma Vita'- what is this Italian?- 'hair mask'. Hair mask? Why do you need a mask for your hair?"

"Oh please, John. Some of us keep up with our appearances, partake in proper skin and hair care, use shampoos that don't contain sulfates, use soap that can't be found in a Tesco… _shave_," he smirks as he continues rummaging through his belongings.

"Oi, bugger off." John playfully tosses the tin at Sherlock.

Sherlock ducks incredibly quickly, almost falling over.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you." John rubs the back of his neck.

"I'm fine."

"Yeah, right. I know. I know you are."

"Really?" Sherlock presses.

"...Yes?" John raises a brow.

Sherlock's eyes dig into him.

"Really, Sherlock," John placates.

"Then why are you here?" Sherlock demands.

"What do you mean?"

"Why did you stay home? Why did you call off work?"

"Sherlock I-"

"You don't think I can handle being alone. You think I need a babysitter in case- in case I have another _episode_," Sherlock spats.

"That's not true! I never said that!"

"You don't have to say it; I _see _it."

"Well, maybe The Great Sherlock Holmes sees things he wants to see sometimes, just like everyone else. Maybe you're wrong."

"Oh? Then tell me, Doctor, why didn't you leave for the clinic with the soon-to-be _other _Dr. Watson?"

"Because my best friend came back from the dead and I thought that was a valid reason to have Mary call off for me! So I could stay with him!" John retorts. "With you," he breathes.

Sherlock purses his lips and looks to the side.

John sighs. "This is our first day together since 2011, Sherlock. I'm damn well not going to the clinic when I know I'll just think about being here with you the whole bloody time anyways."

Sherlock fails to suppress a small smile. "_Reeeeally_, John. You'd be thinking about me the _whole _time? That really is _very _sweet," he jests.

John rolls his eyes. "Bugger off."

Sherlock, now satisfied, goes back to foraging through the box.

"So," John begins, "What do you want to do today? After you clean all this up, I mean."

Sherlock pulls a familiar thick wool tweed coat out of the box, eyes shining.

"I want to see London."


	8. Chapter 8

John expected people to look at them. He expected people to do a double take when they saw Sherlock, to take photos, to call the press. But as they walk the streets of London side-by-side it's as if nothing ever happened. As if it were 2 years ago and him and Sherlock went out to run errands. Part of him is relieved that he gets to spend this time with his best friend in peace, but another part of him, a considerably bigger part, is angry. Sherlock Holmes is back. Sherlock Holmes is in London right now. How can everyone walk by as if this is not the most important moment in all of history? As if a miracle greater than God's own hasn't just graced the ground they walk on? As if they themselves didn't fuel the fire that took Sherlock away in the first place by engrossing themselves with the lies the press told them. The lies that lead to Sherlock's death. They should be graveling at the man's feet right now begging for forgiveness and yet the world continues on business as usual and doesn't even notice his return.

"It's been years, John. They've moved on."

John scoffs.

"Not everyone knew who I was when all of that happened anyways. I was hardly a celebrity. Most of them knew what the hat looked like better than my visage to begin with. They hardly recognized me without it even at the height of all of this."

"Yeah, you're right. It just- it feels so wrong, you know? The normalcy. Makes you feel out of place."

"That it does."

"I don't know why I'm making a big deal of it when this is a much bigger moment for you. I can't even imagine."

"You were in Afghanistan for three years," Sherlock remarks.

John chuckles. "Yeah, I was, wasn't I?"

They walk side-by-side mixing in with the crowds as they cross the street. Sherlock eyes each building as they go, scanning the mix of romanesque stonework and modern fixtures. He watches tourists as they pass by, a mother yelling at her son to slow down and stay with her, a couple pointing at a map of the underground with puzzled expressions, a tour group traveling tightly in a pack. He scans the stands set up on street corners selling tacky London-themed trinkets. He watches commonplace events and beholds buildings they had passed a thousand times before with a sense of reverence, discovery, and perhaps hesitance. His eyes flicker from coaches to cars to crowds as they buzz and rattle around him.

"Where are we going?" John asks.

"Honestly John, I'm not sure."

"Well where would you like to go? 221B? It's been so long…"

"No," Sherlock asserts.

John glances at his companion. "Alright, I just thought you might like to go home after being away so long. And what about Mrs. Hudson?"

"She's precisely the reason I said 'no'."

"But she loves you."

"Yes, and I her, but Mrs. Hudson, Greg, and all the others will have.. expectations upon my return that I cannot fulfill."

"You mean living at 221B and solving cases?" John clarifies.

"Exactly," Sherlock confirms.

"They're your friends, Sherlock. I know neither of us like talking about those sort of things but you don't need to go into any details. I think eventually you should tell them- and me- more about what happened, but for now if they ask just say you're staying with me and you're taking a break from work. They'll understand."

"Perhaps you are right. But today I would prefer it if it were just the two of us. Tomorrow. I promise," Sherlock assents.

"Okay, deal. So what are we doing today?"

"Today I want to re-acquaint myself with London. This walk has made it apparent to me that I am not used to it anymore: the people, the noises. What once faded into the background now seems jarring."

John nods. "Anywhere in particular you want to go?"

"I am thinking perhaps we could just walk around a bit more. Maybe grab lunch, go to St. James Park, purchase some drinks and head to an old bolthole of mine."

"An old bolthole?" John eyebrows his friend suspiciously.

"Not one associated with my previous drug use," Sherlock explains. "One I use to get away from Mycroft when he sticks his fat nose in my business."

John snorts. "Alright, sounds like a plan."

"I can't believe this is an old bolthole of yours. Seriously, Sherlock. How did you get access to this?" John marvels, eyes widening as he looks up at his friend.

"A woman with the key owed me a favor. Stopped an ex of hers from murdering her and her husband."

"Christ," John exclaims as he looks up at the towering staircase spiraling upwards and glances back down at the distant floor below. "Wish this woman also gave you a key to an elevator to get up here. Maybe a crane."

"Don't be ridiculous, John. It's only three hundred and thirty-four steps," Sherlock smirks.

"Exactly! And I have a bum leg and you are in no shape to be making this climb either. You really couldn't have chosen anywhere else to go? A bolthole on the ground floor perhaps?"

"You had a bum leg," Sherlock corrects.

"It still acts up sometimes!," John retorts.

"Does it?" Sherlock quirks a brow.

"Yes! Now let's take a break before your legs collapse under themselves," John commands, cautiously surveying his friend's current condition. He frowns as Sherlock's thighs shake when he proceeds to sit down.

They sit there in the tight stairway, thigh to thigh.

"We're getting old," John states once he catches his breath.

"Us? Old? Never," Sherlock replies, earning a smile from John. "However, that mustache is doing you-"

"-Nope," John interjects. "If you make fun of this mustache one more time I'll shove you right down these stairs and you'll have to climb all the way back up by yourself," he nudges Sherlock with his shoulder.

"Alright, alright. Don't worry, you're still quite fetching even with that dead caterpillar nestling above your mouth just- there," he points at said affronting caterpillar.

"Oi!" John faces Sherlock, snatches his wrist and rises. "Just for that, breaks over." He yanks Sherlock up on his feet, barely giving Sherlock time to grab the brown bag he'd been carrying.

Sherlock steps down onto the stair behind John outside his body, opens his fist, twists his hand around John's loosening his grip, drops John's arm by his side which releases his grip entirely, and walks behind John, down several more steps.

"Nuh uh. Absolutely not. You are not going down those stairs. We did not come this far just to turn around. Nope. You're showing me this buggering bolt hole of yours and we're drinking that scotch you're carrying!" John jives, running ahead of Sherlock's path and blocking it with his arm.

Sherlock smirks and grabs John's arm at his wrist and elbow, forming a fulcrum as he pulls John's hand and pushes his elbow.

John is prepared for this and resists the motion, bracing himself on the wall, and surprised at his own apparent strength as Sherlock struggles to move his arm.

"Welp, it looks like the only way to go is up," John quips. His comment is not met with the expected snarky comment, however, but rather the sound of heavy breathing echoing through the staircase.

John lowers his arm. "Christ, on second thought, maybe you were onto something. We should just get out of here. We can go back home and get you some rest."

"No. I'm fine," Sherlock replies. "I want to finish what we started."

John makes a noise of compliance, then reaches his arm around his friend, supporting his weight and providing assistance with surprisingly little resistance as they ascend the staircase once more.

When they reach the top and turn the corner, rays of sunshine filter through a massive, circular, glass face encased in a very familiar cast iron frame that illuminates a narrow hallway.

"So this is what the other side of Big Ben looks like, huh?" John looks up, eyes reflecting the glow of the clock face.

"Well as I'm sure you know Big Ben is the bell not the clock so-"

John looks pointedly at Sherlock.

Sherlock sighs. "Yes. This is it," he concedes.

They sit on the concrete floor and Sherlock removes the golden brown bottle from the bag, taking a swig and passing it to John. They continue to share the drink for some time and partake in their usual banter. There are large moments of silence between them that are at first quite comfortable. However, the tone shifts the more they drink, morphing into something darker as repressed thoughts slug their way upwards to consciousness.

"I can't believe you're back. I mean I can- I do believe- I just- I went so long thinking I'd never see you again," John mumbles.

"I know. I'm sorry," Sherlock replied honestly.

They both stare at the clock face, glad to have something unchanging and predictable to watch.

"I thought I failed you. I thought it was some kind of test when you acted like you didn't care about Mrs. Hudson. I thought you were trying to test me to see if I still believed in you and that I failed and by the time I realized that and I ran after you you already made your decision. You were up there on that- that roof, and I failed."

Sherlock's chest tightens. "It wasn't a test, John. Just a distraction."

"Every time I ran out of other things to think about, I replayed that moment in my mind. I replayed me calling you a- a machine. In between every moment of every day I thought about how I turned my back on you when you thought I was the only person you had left on your side."

Sherlock's eyes seek to meet John's. "You didn't, John. You were clever; you figured it out. You tried to stop me from jumping and if I had any choice I would have listened."

John squeezed his eyes. "It got better. Over time. But then I realized I stopped thinking of it, of you, and it hit me all over again. I thought I was failing you again. I turned my back on you again and somehow, letting it go was almost worse than rehashing it. I failed."

"John-" Sherlock began, unsure of what to say next.

"I know. I know now, I do. It's okay. I just- I just want ya to know how it felt," John discloses.

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah. Me too." He takes another swig. "But hey," he elbows Sherlock, probably a little harder than intended, "you're back now! Sherlock Holmes and John Watson back on another adventure. Assassins and crime lords and gun fights! Running through the streets of London. Your lanky arse leaving me behind because you've got the impulse control of a toddler, and me running to catch up. It's back! Or at least it will be soon."

Sherlock chuckles. "You always find a way to romanticize these things," he smiles fondly. "You can start the blog up again."

"Yeah, I can get back into writing," John agrees. "Just you and me against the rest of the world," he says, smiling. But the smile soon fades. "What do ya think about Mary?" he asks. "Honestly."

"She's… nice," Sherlock attempts.

"Nice? That's it?" John smirks half-heartedly, lifting a brow.

"She's smart. A woman."

"Mmm yeah, definitely a woman; I can vouch for that one," John smiles.

Sherlock looks at John, not matching his jovial tone.

John's smile falters.

"I think she likes me?" Sherlock questions with a forced attempt at sounding nonchalant. His fingers tap away on the ground below.

John grins. "Oh she definitely does. Isn't that something? I think she's the first one of my girlfriends that doesn't want you dead." He pauses. "Maybe that's a sign that I made the right decision, ya know, that she's the one."

"Mmm," Sherlock assents.

"She's pretty great, really. She's kind and she's bloody brilliant. I mean, even you can't call her an idiot. Maybe you wouldn't go as far to say 'brilliant' because you're you, but ya have to admit she's not your average goldfish."

"Yes, well she certainly isn't like the usual morons you fraternize with."

"I'll tell her that. I'm sure she'll really appreciate it," John jokes.

"She certainly seems interested in The Work," Sherlock states.

"Mm, yeah. She told me she wants to come with us on cases sometime." Another pause. "I know it's kind of our thing, but hey, this way I won't have to deal with another girlfriend jealous of how much time I spend with you," he punctuates, pointing at Sherlock.

"Yes," Sherlock consents. "That could work. Maybe she'll even be useful; it could be convenient having another medical professional around."

"My opinion not good enough for ya?" John teases.

"Always."

John snorts.

They look at each other and smile goofily.

Everything is back to normal and yet everything has changed.

As the moment extends the crinkles around John's eyes begin to fade.

Sherlock's smile flattens and twists.

"Honestly though, she's been great," John insists. "Really. Really great. Great! She's amazing! Brilliant! She keeps me on my toes and pushes me." He pushes his arms forward in demonstration. "Sometimes she's a bit much but I need it, ya know? I mean, in comparison to chasing a criminal around the entiiire city of London, dealing with her is no biggie," he jokes. "But she keeps me on top of my game. Tippity top. Stops me from going back into That Place. It's good, yeah? I love her. Really! I do."

"That's good. You seem… happy," Sherlock manages.

"Yeah. Yeah, thanks." John takes another swig. "Ya know, there's this funny thing really that I did. Before I asked her to marry me. I went to Baker Street. Went into the old flat. Our flat. I wanted to ask for your permission," John scoffs, "as if you were here. As if I need your permission to marry someone. It was just a- a silly little thing. That I did. Not quite sure why."

Sherlock's brows furrow as he watches his friend.

Upon viewing Sherlock's expression, John pushes the bottle away. "We should stop drinking. How the bloody Hell are we supposed to walk back down those stairs?! We're gonna get dizzy the first flight. I bet you'll projectile vomit all the way down to ground floor. 'Ts ridiculous!" John exclaims. "And how'm I supposed to help carry you down?"

"Don't worry about it, John." Sherlock waves his hand in dismissal and stands up with a flourish, wobbling slightly. He extends his hand out to his friend. "You ready?"

"Mmmmm. Gimme five minutes." John burps. "Actually, make that thirty."

Sherlock smiles. "Whatever you need, John."


End file.
